Page 67 of Nicole's Shelter

“Only vaguely. Those I’ve met know me as Olivia, but this place is pretty quiet at this time of year.”

“Good.” The last thing he wanted was collateral damage if Clifton found them here. “Where are the negatives?”

“Why don’t you drive on back to the market and pick up dinner and whatever else you need. Put it on the account.”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“No, I’ve learned that lesson. You’re starving.” She pointed at him, making a circle in the air with her finger. “It’s all over your face. If you want me to come along, I will.”

He didn’t want her out of his sight, despite the relative safety and anonymity of the campground. “I’d feel better if we stuck together.”

Her easy smile flowed over him, lightening the load. No denying it, not that he wanted to. It wasn’t a smart or timely move, but he’d managed to go from zero to love in less than forty-eight hours. Damn.

A stronger man might give that some analysis, but, like sleep, he felt it was overrated. Rick’s first priority was freeing her from the looming threat of Clifton. She wanted control of her future and he intended to see that she got what she wanted.

If he was lucky, she’d want him too.

* * *

Nicole couldn’t believe the difference a meal could make. She’d kept it simple: salsa chicken and a salad, but Rick seemed to relax exponentially with every bite.

And every minute that Clifton didn’t barge through the cottage door was a relief to her.

Trekking through the market together had felt almost routine as they gathered food and supplies to get them through the next few days. While he hadn’t held her close to his side like their first emergency excursion, she’d felt just as tethered to him as they filled the shopping cart.

They’d gone over two hours so far without mentioning Clifton, the negatives, or anything related to her situation. The cottage had a television, but by some unspoken agreement, they hadn’t turned it on.

She assumed the marshals were still searching for her and that she was still wanted for questioning in Virginia for the accusations Clifton had dumped on her head. For now, she was fine with only the desperate hope that her enemy and his biker wannabe assassins were in custody.

Better that fleeting hope than confirmation to the contrary.

When Rick insisted on doing the dishes, she excused herself and retreated to the bedroom. Sleeping arrangements would be interesting. They hadn’t discussed it yet, but her body hummed with the anticipation of returning to Rick’s warm embrace. She wouldn’t assume he wanted to share the bed or go for an encore performance of last night’s passion.

Mentally, she crossed her fingers but she vowed not to make the first move. Somewhere during the day, she’d made a mistake or said the wrong thing and she couldn’t get a clear read on what he wanted from her.

In a perfect world, a world where she wasn’t alternately a witness and a fugitive, they would be here for a lover’s getaway. They’d walk the beach holding hands, search for shells, share late dinners and intimate early mornings.

Her gut twisted. Until now, she hadn’t realized how deeply she wanted that romantic slice of life. She hadn’t held much hope of finding a man who knew—and cared for—the real woman buried under the false names and dark history. But she longed for that kind of relationship. She wanted someone to lean on in good times and bad. Tears stung her eyes. Oh, how she wanted to create some good times.

With Rick.

Years of emotional distance from people gave her a certain self-awareness. She innately understood this fantasy had never been a whisper in her mind because she’d never met him. If he got her out of this, out from under Clifton, could she convince him to spend more time with her?

She distracted herself from the emotional dilemma by nudging aside the bed and area rug to access the floor safe underneath. Tipping the loose piece of flooring freed the bigger panel and revealed the combination dial on the flat gray box.

“Hey, would you like to go for a walk?”

Startled by Rick’s question, she botched the combination and had to start again. “You can be very stealthy,” she accused.

“It’s an acquired skill.”

She snorted. “I imagine you’ve had lots of cause to practice.”

“You imagine correctly.”

Her pulse kicked with the idea that her most recent imagining might come to pass, but that was for later. “Here you go.” With her most professional voice, she withdrew a plain white letter-sized envelope from the safe. Taking out the only other memento of her first life, she sat back and closed the safe, covering it with the flooring.

“How many renters do you think look under the bed for a missing sandal in any given summer?”

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